


Catch My Drift

by anamuan



Category: Free!
Genre: Cooking, First Kiss, Food, Food Safety, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Manhandling, Recipes, Requited Unrequited Love, Secret Crush, Slow Burn, Teasing, Touching, Tsukkomi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 18:51:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17606957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamuan/pseuds/anamuan
Summary: This is more than Makoto can take, Rin's arms wrapped around him so his hands can rest on the counter, Rin's chest causally pressed against Makoto's back. Rin's breath tickling the side of Makoto's neck, but he can't do anything about it, can't turn his head and catch Rin's lips in a kiss, can't press back against him, or set the knife down and grab one ofRin'shands by the wrist and guide it down to his cock—and Rin—Rin just wants to show Makoto how to cook.





	Catch My Drift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionheart/gifts).



“Oh, my god, you’ve got to be kidding me. What is this?” Rin says accusingly from where he’s standing in front of a kitchen cupboard. Makoto winces. He’d forgotten about those.

“Uh. Cup noodle?”

“You’ve got most of a whole cupboard full of cup noodle and you don’t have a single fresh vegetable in your kitchen. What are you _eating_?”

Cup noodle was the wrong answer.

*

“Ow, Rin! Don’t _hit_!”

*

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know it’s not good for me!”

*

“You know I can’t cook!”

*

“You are a grown man,” Rin says, standing next to Makoto in the grocery check-out line. “You should know how to feed yourself.” Makoto keeps his eyes down and his expression appropriately shamed-faced. He nods, contrite.

The line moves up and they’re at the register. Rin chats pleasantly enough with the clerk and adds a couple of the store’s printed eco-friendly bags to their purchases. Makoto smiles along, bemused, just like he’d smiled along as Rin had compared prices in the meat aisle and picked over the vegetables for the freshest looking items.

He bumps Makoto with his shoulder. “Oi. You’re paying for this.” Makoto gets out his wallet without complaint. The back of his head still hurts where Rin had got a good swing in earlier.

*

Makoto swallows and considers backing out of the kitchen and maybe right out of the apartment. His face feels hot. Is his face red? He touches his cheeks with the backs of his hands. His face is definitely red.

Rin’s going to notice him hanging back any minute and yell at him again, because he’s not supposed to be dithering in the doorway, he’s supposed to be getting his ass in here and learning to feed himself. But Rin's standing at his counter with a cutting board and a chef's knife, and his hair's caught up in that little ponytail, and he's wearing Makoto's only apron, the one his mom left here when she helped him move down, and it does something to the pit of Makoto's stomach and, apparently, to the capillaries in his face.

Tokyo Bay isn't that far away. He could definitely just go drown himself.

No, he can't. No one would ever forgive him if he drowned himself in the ocean, _particularly_ Rin, and Rin is _standing right there in his kitchen wearing an apron and doing bad things to Makoto's heart rate_. He takes a deep breath.

He lets it out. Time to face the music.

He makes himself walk into the kitchen. Rin gives him a sideways glance when he gets there, then sets the knife down on the cutting board and strips the apron off over his head. He shoves it against Makoto's chest and Makoto manages to catch it awkwardly before it drops.

"I was going to show you first, but you'll probably learn better if I make you do it from the start," Rin says. When Makoto doesn't move, Rin makes a show about being put out, snatches the apron back, and then drops the loop over Makoto's head.

He grabs one of Makoto's wrists and stretches his arm out to its full length. Then, one hand still warm on Makoto's wrist, he repeats the process with the other arm: catching him around the wrist and stretching his arm out so that it drags Makoto's arm out too. They end up standing practically chest to chest, arms at full length, Rin's hands still on him while Makoto tries not to swallow his tongue because the way Rin is pawing him is completely platonic and definitely more annoyed than anything else, but Makoto can't help the way his heart's leapt into his throat. It feels like the tongue he's choking on is the only thing keeping his heart from making a total break for it and jumping straight out of his body.

"Stay like that," Rin says, and abruptly lets go of him. Makoto tries not to feel bereft. He fails at it. Rin ducks around behind him and ties Makoto's apron strings together, not really touching him, knuckles just brushing his back as he finishes the knot.

"There you go," Rin says, clapping him on the back and stepping away. Makoto manages a mechanical nod. Right. Here he goes.

"Uh," Makoto says after a long moment. "What am I supposed to be doing right now?"

"Wash your hands, stupid," Rin says. He's contemplating his set-up on the kitchen counter, not even looking at Makoto. Right. Ok. Makoto goes to wash his hands.

"Now, get over here." Rin offers him the knife, handle first. Their fingers _almost_ tangle on the transfer, but somehow don't. It's probably for the best—just the idea of it was making Makoto lightheaded—but he's still disappointed.

And then he forgets all about that—disappointment or relief or might-have-beens—as Rin drags him over to stand in front of the cutting board and then crowds right up behind him, arms wrapped around him so he can hold on to the back of each of Makoto's wrists. Rin has his chin tucked up over Makoto's shoulder: he's the perfect height, really, to just rest his chin on Makoto's shoulder and see what Makoto's doing, absolutely effortless, standing like this.

Rin taps a finger against the back of Makoto's left hand and says—voice low, right in his ear; Makoto's knees go kind of weak—"Get an onion." Makoto nods jerkily, not trusting his voice. He can feel the short hairs on the back of his head brush against the side of Rin's face.

Rin blows a short breath at him—an unspoken _stop that_ —and Makoto has to stand very, very still for a moment because he doesn't want Rin to notice the shivers that's sending down his spine. Rin's just horrified by the fact that he can't feed himself. Makoto's body needs to stop trying to read anything into it. He picks up the onion Rin had set out on the counter and sets it on the cutting board.

Rin re-arranges his grip on Makoto's right hand—his knife hand—literally unwrapping and re-adjusting Makoto's grip on the knife finger by finger, finishing by nudging Makoto's thumb to curl under the edge of the handle at a slightly different angle; and when he lets go Makoto nearly drops the knife completely because he wasn't expecting to have to hold his hand up by himself.

"Steady there," Rin says, voice ghosting past the shell of Makoto's ear as he wraps his hand back around Makoto's wrist. Makoto nods and tries not to shift his hips, tries not to squirm in place, because he's hard already, completely, and Rin's just standing behind him, innocently, no idea what he's doing to Makoto at all. It's all he can do to keep from thinking about what would happen if he just ground his hips back against Rin, if Rin didn't jump back in surprise, but instead rolled his hips into him too, hands gripping the edge of the counter, arms boxing Makoto in as he fucked up against Makoto's ass-

Rin digs his chin into Makoto's shoulder a little, and Makoto starts, guilty, but Rin's grip is firm around Makoto's knife hand and his motions are smooth, confident, when he twists his wrist so that Makoto has to tilt the knife just a little.

"First, start by cutting the ends off the onion. Hold the onion like this." Rin reaches his left hand around Makoto's body and demonstrates. When he's decided Makoto's had long enough to look, he lets go and nudges Makoto's hand to take his place.

"Good, keep your fingers curled in." Rin laughs, low and rich, right by Makoto's ear, and it sends shivers through him again. His eyes flutter closed for a second as he tries to recover some of his rapidly fraying control. Rin says, "We don't want any fingertips in our dinner."

"No," Makoto agrees, and hopes Rin doesn't notice the way his voice catches in his throat.

Rin maneuvers Makoto's knife hand over the onion. It takes a couple of false starts, where Makoto tries to guess where Rin wants the knife to go and Rin pulls their hands back up to try again. "Che," Rin says, digging his chin into Makoto's shoulder, "Stop fighting me," and it takes everything Makoto has not to drop the knife again.

"There we go," Rin says, setting the knife against the skin of the onion. "Right here, see? It was too far in before, wasting too much. Cut here." Rin presses down on their hands, arm hugging the curve of Makoto's, fingers wrapped firmly around Makoto's wrist. The edge of the knife slices cleanly through the top of the onion. When it hits the cutting board, Rin drags their hands back, pulling the knife backwards towards Makoto's stomach handle first, cutting through the onion's fibrous skin, and then lifts the blade away again.

"Ok, now you do the bottom," he says. Makoto's skin burns cold when Rin moves his hand, aches with the loss of contact.

Makoto takes too long to move, must take too long, distracted by the way Rin isn't touching him anymore, because Rin nudges his hand. "You have to turn the onion to cut the other end," he says, suppressed laughter his voice; and this is unfair. This is more than Makoto can take, Rin's arms wrapped around him so his hands can rest on the counter, Rin's chest causally pressed against Makoto's back. Rin's breath tickling the side of Makoto's neck, but he can't do anything about it, can't turn his head and catch Rin's lips in a kiss, can't press back against him, or set the knife down and grab one of _Rin's_ hands by the wrist and guide it down to his cock—and Rin—

Rin just wants to show Makoto how to cook.

"Sorry," Makoto says. "I'm a little weak against onions." He turns it around and lifts his own hand to set the knife against the edge of the onion's skin and cuts down and back just like Rin had done for them before. The bottom of the onion falls away, and Rin steps back, and Makoto has to swallow the lump in his chest at the sudden loss of contact.

When he thinks he can turn around without anything showing on his face, Makoto finds Rin rinsing rice in his sink. His movements are brisk, economical; he looks comfortable, relaxed. Makoto's eyes catch for a moment on the way Rin's forearms look with the sleeves pushed up, before he drags them away, knowing he can't trust himself.

"Your mom bought you a really nice rice-cooker, huh," Rin says, filling the pot with water. "I bet you never used it. Ungrateful child."

"Uh, how can you tell it's a nice one?" Makoto asks.

Rin motions him over, and Makoto goes despite his better judgment, steps close until he's the one peering over Rin's shoulder, though he's very, very careful not to touch. "See these lines? They tell you exactly how much water to put in depending on what kind of rice you're using, and it gives you options for three different kinds of rice. The one I have in Australia doesn't have any measures at all; you have to guess, more or less." He glances at Makoto out of the corner of his eye, lips pulling into a smirk. "Well, that's probably for the best, for you. You'd never make it without explicit instructions."

Rin slides out from between Makoto and the edge of the sink somehow, and Makoto feels that increasingly familiar pang: Rin, just out of his reach, Rin moving away from him, and nothing Makoto can do about it. Makoto swallows and looks down at his hands and notices for the first time that he'd brought the knife with him. He reaches over and drops it on the cutting board just in time for Rin to finish with rice cooker and scold, "What do you think you're doing? You still have to finish slicing that onion!"

Rin catches him by the elbow, manhandles him back into place in front of the cutting board, and retakes his spot behind him, easy as anything. Easy as breathing, except that Makoto's forgotten how to breathe again, and his fingers are shaky when Rin reaches around his body to nudge his hand towards the knife.

Once Makoto's got the knife in his hand again, and Rin's re-adjusted his grip on the handle to his satisfaction, Rin settles his chin on Makoto's shoulder and says, "Ok, cut the onion in half length-wise—no, no, turn it—length-wise means from end to end."

Makoto turns the onion so it's sitting on one of the flat ends he's cut off.

"Good, now slice it down the middle," Rin says, and Makoto's proud of the way his hands obey, the way he's made them stop shaking with want, with frustration, with being so very close.

"Peel the skin off both sides—good—now set it on the cutting board on its flat side and, just. Here," and Rin reaches around to curl his fingers around the back of Makoto's hands again, arms pressed along the curl of Makoto's own, fingers hot where the tips rest lightly against the inside of Makoto's wrist. His pulse must be beating out of control; he hopes Rin can't feel it. "Cut slices like this," Rin says, maneuvering Makoto's knife hand, "about half a centimeter wide. Going slowly is ok. Keep your fingers away from the blade."

They finish the first half together, and then Rin drops his hands away and tells him to do the other half on his own. "Good enough," Rin says, a smile in his voice as it rumbles by Makoto's ear that makes Makoto want to lean into it, makes him want to tilt his head away so that Rin has better access to his neck, makes him want to drop the knife and tangle his fingers in Rin's hair and pull his head down so that—

"Uh," Makoto says, snapping himself out of that last fantasy, "What do I do now?"

"Ok," Rin says, tapping Makoto's wrist until he sets the knife down. Rin pushes the cutting board away, sliced onion and all, and then pulls another cutting board with a cute picture of a chicken in one corner towards them. Rin taps the chibi chicken, then reaches forward to tap the little veggie on the other board. "Always use this one for meat," he says, tapping the chicken again, "Never vegetables or fruit. I've got you another in the cupboard for fish. If you cut raw meat on the same cutting board as you cut things you might eat raw, you can make yourself sick."

Makoto nods, and Rin drags the grocery store packet of chicken thighs over. "We got the kind that's already had the bones removed so you don't have to worry about deboning anything. Take out one of the thighs and hold it like you held the sliced onion. Cut them a little bigger, and make sure you keep your fingers tucked under."

Rin doesn't hold Makoto's wrist to guide him this time, but he doesn't move away either, stays tucked close behind him with his chin propped on Makoto's shoulder. "Like this?" Makoto asks, slicing through a section. The raw chicken is slippery under his hands, and Makoto has to focus on keeping his fingers tucked safely away from the blade.

"Perfect," Rin says in his ear, and Makoto isn't sure if it's the praise or the low rumble of his voice so close that sends another shiver down his spine. When Makoto has finished slicing strips, Rin takes his wrist again and turns the board 90 degrees. Makoto lets his wrist go limp in Rin's grip, lets him move them to where he wants them; when Rin lets go again, he's expecting it this time. He's able to keep his grip on the knife, but feels no less bereft than before.

"Cut here," Rin says. "Then make the rest of the pieces about the same size. You're doing well. I think you're getting the hang of it." Makoto can hear the grin in his voice, so close to his ear. He resists the urge to just lean in, push back, drop his head backwards onto Rin's shoulder and bare the side of his throat to him, and finishes cutting the chicken.

Goosebumps break out along Makoto's arms when Rin steps away again, hyper aware of the sudden absence of Rin's body heat, just as he was hyper aware of Rin's warmth before. Feeling frozen in place, Makoto stands dumbly in front of the diced chicken, half turned to see what Rin was doing without him.

Rin snags the edge of Makoto's apron, tugging him towards the sink. "Wash the knife and your hands," he says. "You don't want to get raw chicken on everything."

"Yeah," Makoto agrees, and washes both. He can't help darting glances at Rin as he rummages around Makoto's neglected kitchen. It feels...homey with Rin there. It's nice in a way Makoto had never really considered before. His fantasies of Rin had never involved the kitchen before. Half the time Makoto forgot he had a kitchen at all.

Rin pulls out several bottles from a cupboard and then lines them up next to the cook top. He pulls a deep pan that Makoto vaguely remembers his mother leaving him out of one of the cabinets and sets it on top of a cold burner. Rin motions to him, and Makoto walks over to join him by the stove.

"Ok, since you're still learning, let's measure the ingredients out first and turn on the stove after. Once you get the hang of it, you won't need to do it like this, but you might feel less pressure if we start cold," Rin says, like any of that makes any sense to Makoto. Makoto nods anyway.

"Measuring cup," Rin says, producing one from a drawer and setting it down. "You want to measure out 120 mL of mirin, soy sauce, sake, and dashi," he says, indicating each bottle in turn. "The dashi needs to go in the fridge when you're done, but the rest can stay in cabinets."

Makoto nods and takes the measuring cup instead of wrapping his arms around himself. Compared to their closeness before, now Rin feels miles away. Makoto misses him, even though he's standing right there.

Makoto dumps each ingredient into the deep pan on the stove as he measures it. After stowing the bottle of dashi in the fridge, Rin says," Ok, now turn the stove on to high," watching carefully as Makoto turns the knob for the burner under the pan. "And now dump the onions and chicken in too."

Makoto turns back to the cutting boards and grabs an awkward handful of onion, but Rin is suddenly there, holding his wrist again. "Not like that, here. Let go." Makoto lets go. Rin picks up the entire cutting board so that the plastic edges turn up to hold all the onion in. Satisfied, he picks up the knife in his other hand, and walks everything over to the pan on the stove. "Like this," he says, tilting the cutting board so that most of the onion slid straight into the pan from gravity. He uses the knife to scrape the stragglers off the board to join the rest and then turns to hand Makoto the knife.

"You do the chicken," he says, smiling expectantly. It makes Makoto feel like he might actually get to be good at this, if Rin has so much confidence in him.

Makoto tries to copy the way Rin had held the cutting board. It feels flimsier in his hands than he'd like, but he manages to get the fifteen centimeter distance from the counter to the stove without incident. Raw chicken plops into the pan, and then Makoto makes several awkward scrapes with the knife to get everything else in too.

"Now what?" he says, trying not to drip chicken juice everywhere. Rin laughs and tugs him by his apron strings back to the sink.

"Just set them in here for now, and then come back to the stove."

Rin presses a wooden spoon into Makoto's left hand and then bodily arranges him in front of the stove to his liking. He slides in behind him again, chin at his shoulder, lips by his ear, and Makoto knows he should be paying attention to the fire in front of him, but Rin's so close behind him, chest pressed into his back, that it's hard to concentrate.

"Wh—" Makoto coughs and has to clear his throat before he can continue. "What's 'simmering'?" he manages despite everything.

Rin rests his chin on Makoto's shoulder, pulling his chest flush with Makoto's back. Makoto can feel his muscles through their thin shirts, and the heat of Rin's skin, and it takes all of Makoto's self control not to simply _arch_ into his touch like a cat.

Makoto can feel the little amused rumble in Rin's chest when he speaks. "Pay attention," he says, laugh in his voice. Makoto's spine melts. Rin moves his hand from Makoto's wrist and settles it at Makoto's waist "It's simmering now. See how it shimmers almost, but there aren't any big bubbles?"

Makoto nods jerkily, feeling hot all over.

Rin wraps his left hand around Makoto's on the spoon. Makoto bites down on a groan and squeezes his eyes shut. "Stir a little while it cooks. It should only take about five minutes," Rin says, stirring with Makoto's hand; Makoto lets him move him as he likes. The five minutes stretches on, winding Makoto ever tighter. He tries to focus on the fire, on the food, on what Rin has so kindly been trying to teach him, but he can't pull his mind away from how good it feels to have Rin behind him, around him, touching him like this.

"There, good," Rin says, and Makoto swears something in him breaks, his lungs or his brain or something; certainly not his cock, which is straining painfully upright and will be impossible to hide if Rin ever turns him around. "I think we're about done. Don't move, I'll be right back."

When Rin steps away this time it's almost a relief. Makoto isn't sure how much more he can take.

Rin comes back with six eggs cracked into a bowl and a pair of cooking chopsticks that he'd made Makoto buy at the grocery store.

"Turn the heat up to high again," Rin says, sliding behind him again. "We'll beat these while that comes back up to a boil."

Rin takes the spoon out of Makoto's hand and then passes him the bowl of eggs. Rin wraps one arm around Makoto, chopsticks in hand, and uses them to break the yolks and lightly beat the eggs. "See how they're only sort of mixed together?" he says in Makoto's ear. Makoto swallows down something that might sound suspiciously close to a sob—relief or agony, he's not sure—and nods his head. Rin is a furnace behind him, burning him up like flash paper.

"Now, hold the bowl carefully," Rin says, wrapping his other hand back around Makoto's burning wrist. "Once our chicken and onions are boiling again, you're going to pour about three fourths of this in on top. Then we'll let it cook a little before pouring the rest over all of it." Makoto nods, the hairs on the back of his head brushing tantalizingly against the skin of Rin's cheek.

"Ok, tilt now," Rin says, and when Makoto does, he moves their hands around in a rough circle above the pan, spreading the eggs out fairly evenly across the top of everything inside. He exerts a tiny amount of pressure on the underside of Makoto's wrist to tell him to stop pouring, and uses the chopsticks in his other hands to scrape the eggs dripping down the side of the bowl up so they won't make a mess.

"Don't stir it," Rin warns him. "We'll wait about a minute, enough for the eggs in the pan to start to set, and then pour the rest over. Do you want to try it yourself?" Makoto shakes his head, not wanting to do anything that will make Rin take his hands off him, isn't sure anymore that he'll survive it when Rin does.

"Ok, now," Rin says, and helps him pour out the rest of the eggs. He scrapes everything left in the bowl out with the chopsticks, and then says, "Grab that lid and put it on top." Makoto obeys.

"About thirty seconds, and then we turn the heat off."

Makoto nods.

"We'll leave it covered a little longer. The rice should be done any moment now."

Makoto turns off the burner. He jumps, startled, when the rice cooker starts playing a jaunty tune.

"The rice is done; give me the spoon, and go scoop some rice into bowls," Rin says. This time their hands do tangle on the spoon handle; Makoto feels each point of contact like sparks under his skin, even after the afternoon he's had already. He bites back a groan, and goes to get the rice.

Rin motions him back impatiently, and commands him to watch as he carefully scoops the oyakodon from the pan on top of the rice in the first bowl. Then, handing Makoto the spoon again, he says, "You do this one."

Makoto does his best to copy Rin's scooping technique for his own bowl. It's not as hard as it looked, and Makoto feels a weird surge of pride looking at the meal he made—almost—by himself.

"Ok, let's eat!" Rin says, and drags him out of the kitchen by his apron strings.

*

Rin pushes him toward the farther chair, and then grabs the one closest to the kitchen doorway. "Thanks for the meal~" Rin sing-songs, and then digs in immediately. Makoto takes a little longer to settle, carefully and stealthily adjusting himself in his pants as he sits down.

Almost as soon as he has, a pair of chopsticks holding a bite of of oyakodon appears under his nose. "Say ahhh," Rin says. "It's good, isn't it?" There's an oddly determined look on Rin's face, which makes Makoto swallow his protests: I've got my own bowl; those are your chopsticks; _indirect kiss_ and open his mouth for the bite. That doesn't stop him from _thinking_ it though, and Makoto swallows the bite like a mouthful of sand as his brain circles on a tiny, panicked, disappointed-ecstatic loop of _indirect kiss, indirect kiss, indirect kiss_.

It takes him a few moments to calm himself down enough to remember to pick up his own chopsticks. He couldn't have said what the mouthful had tasted like, and he's privately a little amazed he didn't choke on it, but across the table, Rin still has a small smile on his face. Makoto can't help the pleased little flutter in his stomach at having Rin sitting at his table and smiling at him.

He's probably smiling a little too widely in response, so he quickly crams a bite of his own into his mouth. It _is_ good, actually. He hasn't had a home-cooked meal since last time he visited his parents. If he could remember half the things Rin had showed him how to do, he'd want to try making it again on his own.

They eat in casual companionship, chatting about what Rin wants to do on his visit. Rin asks questions about what he should do when Makoto is at work, and Makoto tries to answer them in between sips from his glass of water. Makoto asks Rin what he wants to do on the weekend, and almost doesn't think about it when Rin snags Makoto's cup and takes a sip of his own.

It isn't until Makoto's drinking from it again himself that he realizes what had happened. He promptly chokes.

Makoto coughs the water out of his windpipe and motions for Rin to sit back down. "Down the wrong pipe," he says, smiling a watery smile to reassure Rin. Water all out, his chest still hurts with a fluttery, terrified _hope_ that he needs to crush quickly before it grows out of control. The indirect kisses, the full-contact cooking lesson—this can't be what Makoto thinks it is. It just can't. It must be something other than what it looks like— _feels_ like.

Because- Because if it's _not_ , if it _is_ what it seems like, that means _Rin_ likes him _back_ , and Makoto— Makoto isn't prepared to deal with _that_. He is particularly unprepared to deal with getting his hopes up and then being _wrong_. So it can't be what it looks like. Rin can't be _flirting_ with him.

He just...has to act normal. Rin will have a good time visiting him from Australia, Makoto will enjoy his company, silent pining or no, and maybe, just maybe, Makoto will learn how to cook a few things without burning the kitchen down. It will be good. So he has to be cool. That's what he has to do.

So when Rin takes another sip from his glass, eyes hooded, lips _just_ where his own had been, Makoto resolutely turns his attention to his bowl and sets about devouring everything he's got left to eat. He gives up the drink for lost, abandoned for the greater good.

By the time he sets his bowl down, Rin's also finished. Rin is kind of looking at him a little strangely, but Makoto doesn't let himself think about _that_ , so he just tries to smile convincingly, and says, "Thanks for the food."

"You made it," Rin says.

Makoto laughs, and that sounds normal at least. "It's only edible because of you."

"You've got..." Rin says, motioning towards Makoto's cheek. Makoto lifts his hand to brush whatever bit of dinner that's stuck to his face away, but Rin reaches out at the same time, and plucks a few grains of rice off his face before he gets there.

"Thanks," Makoto says, and then stops short, because Rin _puts the rice into his own mouth and swallows it_. Makoto's entire face goes abruptly red, and he's staring; he knows he is, so he grabs for his abandoned glass and drinks whatever's left in the bottom just to give himself an excuse to break eye contact. The fuck.

Rin—

Rin has—

Rin _has_ been flirting with him. Makoto feels like his brain just melted between his ears, and his heart is beating triple time, and he's so happy he thinks he's about ready to float right off the surface of the planet, no longer subjected to everyday rules like one-sided crushes or gravity. Rin has been _flirting_ with _him_.

"Thanks for the meal," Rin says, and there's a weird note in his voice that tugs at Makoto's attention even through the elated haze of realization, and Rin pushes his chair back and practically _flees_ to the kitchen.

Shit.

Rin likes him, and Makoto's been so clueless all afternoon that he doesn't think he likes Rin back! Makoto scrambles out of his chair and gives chase.

He catches up with Rin by the fridge, shoving the leftover rice into a tupperware container with a closed off expression on his face. Makoto hasn't seen him looking like that in years, and hates it, has hated it since the first time he saw Rin wearing it in that abandoned pool. And this time it's his fault Rin looks like that, which is so absolutely unacceptable that Makoto moves before he even thinks about what he's doing.

He pushes Rin up against the side of the fridge, tilts his head up with one hand on his chin, and kisses him.

Rin's lips are soft and warm against his, mouth a little open in surprise. There's an electrical current running through Makoto everywhere they're pressed together—their mouths, the tips of his fingers against the underside of Rin's jaw, the corner of his hip digging into the edge of Rin's waist—and the singing of it in his veins makes him feel almost dizzy. Rin leans into him, giving him better access to his mouth, so Makoto licks over Rin's lower lip, trying to hear the way Rin's breath catches over the pounding of his own heart.

After a few moments, Makoto pulls away far enough to get a look at Rin's face, still feeling inexplicable anxious about Rin's reaction against all evidence.

Rin scowls up at him, and Makoto swallows nervously. "Took you fucking long enough," Rin says, and pulls him back down for another kiss. Makoto's answering smile stretches so wide it makes it hard to properly kiss him back.

*

"Ok," Rin says, chin in its usual spot on Makoto's shoulder, voice doing shivery things to his spine as it rumbles past his ear. Rin slides his hands in between Makoto and the apron, and tucks them into Makoto's front pockets. He uses his grip to pull Makoto's ass flush against his hips. Makoto doesn't bother to hide his groan when he feels Rin's erection pressing against him. "Today I'll show you how to make omurice."

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to lionheart for the title, and for reading this in tiny sections via email for literally years
> 
> If you want to make _this_ version of oyakodon, the recipe is [here](https://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2013/12/oyakodon-chicken-and-egg-rice-bowl-from-japanese-soul-cooking.html).
> 
> I started this fic in like, February of 2014 and got halfway through the onion slicing. Then it languished in my drafts for the better part of 5 years until I found it again, and thought 'oh hey, I bet I can finish this', so here it is.


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